The night sky lit up with the glow of Arwen’s resonance casting. Waves of flames covered the sky, then they scattered with powerful winds before light itself seemed to materialise.

  Midhir sat on the steps of the courtyard, his gaze captivated by the young witch’s show of power. She reminded him of Ilya many years ago.

  He wasn’t the only one watching. Scattered around the courtyard, small groups of soldiers and servants stopped whatever they were doing to watch her. He didn’t blame them, after a gruelling day of work they deserved to pause to watch a fancy show of magical lights.

  He barely heard the sound of a door creaking open on the other side of the courtyard over the roar of the flames. Reluctantly he turned his gaze away from the spectacle in the sky, towards the two people who had entered the courtyard.

  He immediately recognised the greying head of Chiron. The lieutenant was accompanying another man, and carrying an oddly shaped object wrapped in several layers of cloth. The man beside him also carried something – a long, narrow wooden box.

  The first thought that popped into his mind was a weapon delivery. But that wasn’t Chiron’s job – he was too high of a rank to just accompany some blacksmith here. With a scowl, he stood up and walked towards them.

  “Lieutenant,” He called out with a polite smile, just loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough to not alert the whole courtyard. Arwen’s spectacle didn’t need to be cut short just to sate his curiosity.

  Chiron immediately slowed his steps. “Your highness,” he bowed. “A pleasant surprise to see you here. I was going to seek you tomorrow morning.” He took a step back, gesturing towards the man he was accompanying. “This is Arbiter Kaien, her majesty’s guest from Calador.”

  He felt blood freeze in his veins.

  “This is Prince Midhir Induen-Ardagh,” Chiron continued, this time turning to Arbiter Kaien and gesturing towards Midhir. “Younger brother to Princess Ilya, who you met earlier.”

  The arbiter raised his eyebrows. “A pleasure, highness.” His voice was low and coarse. He motioned to bow in an attempt to mimic Chiron.

  “Please, there is no need for that.” Midhir politely stopped him. “My apologies for not being able to properly welcome you to the Vermillion Keep.” He could only hope his voice didn’t reflect how tense he really was.

  A guest from Calador, and an Arbiter at that. It couldn’t bode well, could it? The country was still being ravaged by civil war, and the desert was slowly encroaching on its territory. If what he saw – what the Old One showed him – was true, then soon Calador would begin losing settlements, towns, and even cities.

  “You are kind,” Arbiter Kaien replied with a momentary smile.

  “Would you like to walk with us, your highness?” Chiron nodded towards the door leading inside. “I was just showing the Arbiter to the armoury.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” A small part of him cursed his own curiosity. He would much rather watch Arwen’s lightshow than play diplomat. He suppressed those thoughts, knowing full well this needed to be done. Besides, he was also curious as to why an Arbiter had arrived, and unannounced too. “What brings you to Eldoria, Arbiter?” He asked as they walked through the doors, towards the armoury.

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  The man grimaced. “I do not recognize my people anymore.” The spark in his eyes dimmed. “I seek refuge here.” He looked down, at his own palm, then clenched his fist.

  It felt as if someone had spilled a bucket of ice cold water over his head. An Arbiter, in Eldoria, seeking refuge. What had the world come to? No wonder his mother and Ilya had been busy since he returned from the border between the two nations. This was an unprecedented event and could very easily turn into a crisis between the two nations.

  “I’m glad you safely arrived, Arbiter.” His words sounded empty in his head in the face of what Calador was suffering from. Yet the Arbiter smiled, pressed his fist over his heart, and bowed his head ever so slightly.

  The door to the armoury once again creaked as Chiron pushed it open. Gerart was leaning on the counter, taking notes to one of the many leatherbound notebooks. The man raised his head, then immediately stood up.

  “You highness, lieutenant.” He bowed, his gaze lingering on the Arbiter. He seemed confused, but didn’t say more.

  “This is our quartermaster, Gerart.” Chiron introduced him, then turned towards the quartermaster. “This is Arbiter Kaien, from Calador.”

  Gerart’s eyes widened for a split second. “It’s an honour, Arbiter.” He bowed deeper, once more. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” He closed the notebook, and straightened his back, his cheerful smile replaced with a polite, but stern expression.

  “Greetings.” Arbiter Kaien placed the box he was carrying on the counter. “I bring two things - a gift for Eldoria, and a gift for ruling blood.” He opened the latch locking the box and pushed its lid up.

  The box was lined with velvet. A series of parchments covered whatever was underneath. The Arbiter pointed at the parchments. “My gift to Eldoria, the knowledge of metalworking passed down from my ancestors.” He looked Midhir in the eye. “I do not give this lightly, highness.”

  He then carefully removed the parchments, giving them to Gerard one by one. He watched the quartermaster like a hawk as he handled the parchments with care. Once the last one was removed from the box, he reached for the cloth covering whatever else was in the box and pulled it away.

  Midhir drew a sharp breath. It was a blade, laying in its scabbard.

  “My gift to ruling blood.” Arbiter Kaien said, his eyes glimmering with pride. “A weapon crafted by my ancestors.” He gestured towards it.

  “May I?” Midhir asked, unable to pry his eyes off of it.

  “It would give me honour.” The Arbiter nodded.

  He gently picked it up, lifting it off the velvet lining the interior of the wooden box. The first thing he noticed was how light it was. It didn’t feel like a streel sword and its scabbard at all. The scabbard was made of lightweight wood, polished carefully then decorated, depicting flowers and a setting sun. Where it connected with the guard of the blade was made of a bony material. “Is this… bone?” He asked.

  “The horn of a water buffalo.” The Arbiter pointed at the lower end of the scabbard. “These fittings are made of that too.”

  Hesitantly, Midhir took a few steps back, then placed his hand on the grip of the sword. It was wrapped in several layers of cloth, cut very narrowly, creating a pattern that reminded him of a braid. It was easy to hold – his hand would slip on it. With a narrow breath, he unsheathed the blade.

  It was a slightly curved blade, one side dull, the other incredibly sharp. A faint line ran along the edge, marking the transition between the hardened cutting edge and the softer spine of the blade. It was longer than a shortsword, shorter than the bastard swords most of the army used, yet somehow lighter than both.

  “It’s beautiful.” He sheathed the blade and motioned to put it back into the box.

  “This is a gift.” The Arbiter stopped him. “Not to be kept in a box, nor to be shown as a piece of art.” His stern voice startled them. “It is a weapon, Highness. One much better than that one, if you excuse my rudeness.” He glanced at the sword hanging from Midhir’s belt. “It should be used, not left to rot.”